Page 342 - All day long, in unrest, To and fro do I move. The very soul within my breast Is wasted for you, love! The heart in my bosom faints To think of you, my Queen, My life of life, my saint of saints, My dark Rosaleen!

Page 454 - And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow, And want, and sickness, and houseless nights, He bides in calmness the silent morrow, That no ray lights. And lives he still, then ? Yes ! Old and hoary At thirty-nine, from despair and woe, He lives enduring what future story Will never know. Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble, Deep in your bosoms ! There let him dwell ! He, too, had tears for all souls in trouble, Here and in hell.

Page 433 - In Siberia's wastes Are sands and rocks. Nothing blooms of green or soft, But the snow-peaks rise aloft And the gaunt ice-blocks. And the exile there Is one with those; They are part, and he is part, For the sands are in his heart, And the killing snows.

Page 13 - And he fell far through that pit abysmal, The gulf and grave of Maginn and Burns, And pawned his soul for the devil's dismal Stock of returns. But yet redeemed it in days of darkness, And shapes and signs of the final wrath, When death, in hideous and ghastly starkness, Stood on his path.

Page 458 - tis half-past twelve o'clock ! After all, the hours do slip away — Come, here goes to burn another block ! For the night, or morn, is wet and cold ; And my fire is dwindling rather low : — I had fire enough, when young and bold Twenty golden years ago. Dear ! I don't feel well at all, somehow : Few in Weimar dream how bad I am ; Floods of tears grow common with me now, High-Dutch floods, that Reason cannot dam. Doctors think I'll neither live nor thrive If I mope at home so — I don't know —...

Page 386 - Was crucified. From glen and hill, from plain and town, One loud lament, one thrilling plaint, Would echo wide. There would not soon be found, I ween, One foot of ground among those bands For museful thought, So many shriekers of the keen.